Wherever You Find A Sentence Musically Worded,

An Idea, In The Highest Sense Of That Word, Cannot Be Conveyed But By A Symbol.

You Do Not Believe, You Only Believe That You Believe.

Chance Is But The Pseudonym Of God For Those Particular Cases, Which He Does Not Choose To Acknowledge Openly With His Own Sign Manual.

And All Who Heard Should See Them There, And All Should Cry, Beware! Beware! His Flashing Eyes, His Floating Hair! Weave A Circle Round Him Thrice, And Close Your Eyes With Holy Dread, For He On Honey-dew Hath Fed, And Drunk The Milk Of Paradise.

Remorse Weeps Tears Of Blood.